Stuart MacBride - Birthdays for the dead

I popped the boot and hauled out the three heavy black plastic bin-bags. My fingers ached as I carried them to the building s entrance. Before the development boom in Logansferry it was a warehouse for machine parts. Now it was luxury apartments with onsite shopping.

Through the double doors and out of the rain. The atrium was big enough to boast its own patch of manicured woodland, yellow-brick trails winding across it, surrounded by empty

shopping units with dusty To Let! signs in the windows. Half the apartments were still up for sale too: FREE CARPETS AND WHITE GOODS! 20,000 OFF YOUR NEW HOME! PART EXCHANGE AVAILABLE!

My phone rang. I let it.

Dumped the bin-bags on the floor of the lift, then pressed the button for the fourth floor.

No reply, so I rang the bell again. Checked my watch: coming up to twenty past ten. She d be awake by now, surely. A muffled rattle and a clunk.

Who is it? A woman s voice, slightly high-pitched, trembling.

Kimberly? It s Ash.

Pause. Some mumbling.

Go away.

No.

Another pause. More mumbling.

She doesn t want to see you.

Kimberly, stop dicking about and open the door, OK? I m having a crappy day already, I don t need this.

A clunk, then the door swung open, and there was Susanne in a pink fluffy dressing gown, one hand on her hip, the other waving a finger in my face. You ve got a lot of bloody nerve! She was wearing sunglasses, a stain of purple and blue spreading out from behind the dark lenses. Another bruise on her chin, lips swollen and cracked on one side.

I dropped my bin-bags. What happened?

What happened? You happened. The finger stopped wagging and started poking. You and your bloody debts!

I stared at her. Who was it?

I don t know. Some ugly little troll and his big ginger sidekick. They said I had to give you a message.

Did the wee one sound like he d swallowed a dictionary? Joseph and Francis. I ll bloody kill him.

Susanne hauled open the front of her dressing gown. Bruises covered most of her stomach, disappearing into her fleecy pyjama bottoms and crop top. How am I supposed to dance like this?

I curled my hands into fists. What was the message?

She howched and spat in my face, then slammed the door in it too. Her voice boomed from inside. And you re fucking dumped!

And you re sure we can t put you in a new car today? The salesman pulled on a shark s tooth smile. It went with the shiny grey suit.

Positive. I pocketed the envelope with the cash in it and walked off the car lot, taking my heavy bin-bags with me.

Rhona leaned back against the bonnet of her Vauxhall, waiting for me. You want to throw those in the boot?

She popped it open and I dumped the bags inside.

Let me guess body parts?

Sodden clothes. Everything else in the house is ruined.

Ooh. She clunked the boot shut again. Susanne not wash them for you?

We re not No.

Rhona sucked her teeth for a moment, then got in behind the wheel.

Meh, you were always too good for her. That mean you ve got nowhere to crash tonight?

Well, there was no way I d be going back home. Yeah.

She started the engine as I climbed into the passenger seat.

Then you re staying at mine. I ve got the spare room, and we can chuck your stuff through the washing machine. You like cats, right?

My phone went again DCI Weber.

Where are you?

Out and about. You?

In the office, where you should be. The ACC s giving some sort of motivational speech at half past and I want you here.

K amp;B Motors disappeared in the rear-view mirror. I don t need motivated.

Tough. We ve lost another girl.

I d expected a motivational speech to be a bit less of a rant. The Assistant Chief Constable paced up and down at the front of the crowded briefing room a thin man with a hunched-over walk, wearing dress-uniform black. And while we re on the subject of unprofessional conduct, I clearly need to spell this out again: you will not speak to the media! He stopped, turned, and glared out at the crowded room. Never. Not so much as a word. As far as those bastards are concerned, you are bloody mute!

No one said anything.

Do you understand me, ladies and gentlemen? M U

T E. The ACC straightened up for a moment, before hunching over again and stalking from the room, slamming the door behind him.

Weber shook his head, then stood, held up his hands for silence.

Now that you re all feeling perky and loved, it s update time. We ve discovered a fifth body at the dump site, Matt and his team are recovering it at the moment, no ID as yet.

Please don t be Rebecca, please don t be Rebecca

Slightly more pressing: Dickie s team of Party Crashers have a system they use to identify possible Birthday Boy victims. Most of the time they re simply runaways who turn up eventually, but other times

Sabir heaved himself out of a small plastic chair and lumbered to the projection screen. He pointed something at the back of the room and a mosaic of girls faces appeared on the screen. We re tracking nineteen girls this year, all gone missin three or four days before their thirteenth birthday. They re all up and down the country, but we got a new one last night. He pointed the thing again and the screen changed to a head-and-shoulders shot of a young girl trying desperately to look older. Far too much makeup, broad face stretched wider by a smile that looked practised, hair the colour of wet straw scraped back from her face in a Kingsmeath facelift.

Sabir nodded at the screen. Megan Taylor: she ll be thirteen on Monday. Bunked off school on Thursday to hang about the shops with her mates. They say she was acting all secret-like, you know, thought she was going to meet someone special. We ve got her on CCTV at the Templers Vale shoppin centre at three-fifteen yesterday afternoon, after that nothin.

He pointed the remote again and Megan s face was replaced by grainy security camera footage with a timestamp flickering away in the bottom right-hand corner. Six kids, none of them wearing school uniforms, all of them with backpacks.

Two girls were sitting on the edge of a large square planter at the centre of the group. One was a bit on the chunky side with a low-cut top, the other was Megan. She was smoking a cigarette: making a big production of it, as if she was in a film. Look at me: look how sophisticated and grown up I am. Slurping at a large wax-paper cup of something fizzy from a fast-food outlet probably the KFC on the ground floor working the straw like a pro.

The big girl stomped away, out of the picture.

Then the group froze, looked left.

A wee man in a security guard s uniform appeared onscreen, pointing his finger as if it was a gun.

Megan took one last draw on her cigarette, dropped it, then ground the butt out with her trainer. She stood, said something. Her mates all laughed.

Mr Security Guard marched closer.

She flipped the drink at him. The wax-paper cup spun through the air then exploded on the marble floor ice and fizzy sugared water going everywhere.

He danced back a couple of steps, and she was off, running and laughing, giving him the finger as she disappeared off screen.

Nice girl. Her mum and dad must be so proud.

The picture froze, then jumped back to Megan s face.

Sabir sniffed. Course, we don t really know if she s a victim yet. Won t get confirmation one way or the other till the parents gerra birthday card next year. But given you lot ve found all them bodies, and she s gone missin from Oldcastle, chances are? A shrug. And then he sat down again.

Thank you, Constable. Weber picked up a clipboard from the nearest desk and flicked through the attached sheets.

In light of this I m pulling Gilbert, McTavish, and Urpeth off the door-to-doors: you re seconded to DCS Dickie s task force, try not to embarrass anyone. DI Morrow will hand out the rest of the assignments.